


A White Heron In Winter

by orchidblossom



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Body Worship, Friends to Lovers, Golden Deer Felix and Sylvain, Hair Kink, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Time Skip, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Slow Burn, Smut, Sword Dancing, Sylvain is learning a lot about himself, dancer felix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidblossom/pseuds/orchidblossom
Summary: Sylvain didn't even know men could be dancers. But apparently, they can, and apparently, Byleth has determined Felix is Golden Deer's best chance at winning the White Heron Cup. Sylvain just wants to be supportive. Of course Felix is a good dancer, because Felix is good at everything. And of course Sylvain can't take his eyes off him, because... wait.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look, if the universe is gonna give me dancer Felix, I'm not gonna _not_ write smut about that. (Felix and Sylvain have joined Golden Deer ahead of this just because that's what happened in my Golden Deer playthrough and I've not done the other routes yet.)

When Felix tells Sylvain that Professor Byleth asked him to train for the White Heron Cup, Sylvain would have accused him of joking, except for the fact that Felix never jokes. 

“You’re serious?”

“I’m dead serious, Sylvain. She told me I’m the most graceful member of the class and if I hadn’t joined the Golden Deer, she’d be stuck with Raphael. Marianne’s too shy, Hilda’s too brash, Lysithea would never agree to it because she’d think people wouldn’t take her seriously.”

“Well, what about… ah… Leonie?” 

“Sylvain, we were in Golden Deer for two weeks before you realized Leonie is a girl.” 

“Well, _you’re_ not a girl either, in case the professor hasn’t noticed.” 

“Apparently it’s not a requirement.” 

“But have you ever seen a male dancer?” 

Felix flings himself unceremoniously down on Sylvain’s bed. “No, but apparently that’s just a coincidence -- there’s nothing in the rules saying a dancer can’t be anyone of any gender, as long as they have the skills and training. Trust me, I looked.” 

Sylvain sits on the edge of the bed beside Felix, examining his blank expression. “So are you really gonna do it?”

“I don’t guess I have much of a choice, do I? Professor Byleth let us join her class on the condition that we give our all in training, so refusing the first thing I’m specifically asked to do would look kind of bad, wouldn’t it? Besides… I mean, it’s not like I _can’t_ do it. I’ll still have my sword, and the actual dancing can’t be too hard compared to what I’ve done in hand-to-hand, right?” 

Sylvain thinks for a moment. Felix takes himself and his training far too seriously to treat an offer like this lightly, and if he’s somehow gotten the faintest idea that Sylvain or anyone else doubts his ability to do something, he’ll double down on it until he’s mastered every nuance. 

“Well, when does it start?” 

Felix groans and rolls over so that his face is buried in Sylvain’s pillow. “She wants to give me private lessons first thing in the morning.” 

“Who’s the competition, anyway?” 

“Mercedes is going for the Blue Lions, and I think Black Eagles are sending… Dorothea….”

“God, good luck, Felix. You’re probably gonna need it.” 

\-- 

Once Felix is committed to something, he tends to hold nothing back, and dancing is no different. He returns to the Golden Deer common room in the evenings tired and sore, his vest off and uniform shirt soaked through with sweat. But he refuses to show Sylvain anything he’s learning, or even describe it to him much. It’s not that he seems embarrassed, necessarily; when Hilda asks teasingly if he’s going to be attending “charm school” one afternoon, Felix freezes her with a glance and replies that _he_ doesn’t consider training for a highly specialized combat role to be anything to laugh about. 

One afternoon about a week before the ball, Sylvain walks past Felix’s bedroom in the dormitory. He’s on his way to the dining hall, but as he passes, he notices Felix’s door is just slightly ajar. Well, Sylvain has gone this far in life without missing an opportunity to mess with Felix, so there’s no point in breaking that streak now. He sneaks over to peek inside, fully intending to either startle Felix if he finds him there or do something harmless but infuriating to his things if the room is empty. 

The room isn’t empty, but Sylvain’s feet freeze to the floor when he sees Felix, stripped to the waist, hair loose, standing in front of a full-length mirror that he must have had sent from home because it’s definitely not part of the regular Garreg Mach furnishings. It’s been running hot in the sleeping quarters lately, probably because the fires that heat the monastery’s stuffy interior have been kept blazing around the clock to counteract the biting winds outside. So Felix is bare to the waist and faintly shining with sweat as he sweeps his long hair off his shoulders, extending his arms above his head and arching his body into a long, graceful curve. 

He’s practicing, of course. The techniques of the dancer, the sensual motions imbued with magical significance that focus energy and power and send it flowing toward allies on the battlefield. 

Though Sylvain has seen enough warlocks and bishops and dark knights in action to know that battle magic is no joke, he’s always been a bit skeptical of dancers. Something about the concept has always felt a little silly to him, to be honest; they don’t hurl fireballs into enemy ranks or heal the cursed and wounded. They just… _dance_… and that’s supposed to charm their allies into being better fighters? It’s never really made sense to him. 

But now, watching Felix, he feels an undeniable tingle in his guts. Maybe Felix is just that good. He’s certainly the best swordsman Sylvain has ever met, so it’s not a stretch to imagine he could be the best dancer, too. He looks and moves differently from the female dancers Sylvain has seen, naturally. His wide shoulders and broad, flat chest set him apart in that way. But there’s still something elegant about him, something Sylvain never really thought could exist in a man’s body; the way his broad shoulders curve in to a narrow waist, slender hips, his long and tapered hands hanging poised in the air. 

Felix begins a slow spin and Sylvain narrowly avoids his line of sight as he dives out of the door frame. Had he been standing there for long? Probably. Maybe a creepily long time. But it isn’t his fault Felix has been so secretive about his training. It’s not like he ever hides when he’s practicing a new swordfighting technique. He knows he’s going to see him dance at the White Heron Cup, and maybe more afterwards, if he wins -- and based on what he’s just seen, he thinks Dorothea might not actually have the whole competition in the bag after all. 

His face feels hot, due of course to the stuffy dormitory and the roaring fireplaces. He keeps his eyes on the floor the rest of the way to the dining hall.


	2. Chapter 2

Sylvain tries his best to give Felix some space in the weeks leading up to the ball. He needs the time and energy to practice, and maybe Sylvain feels the slightest bit guilty about watching him. Not spying. Just an inadvertent glimpse. 

Felix always swears that he wants space from Sylvain until he actually tries to give it to him, as it turns out. Sylvain takes their dinner plates to the kitchen on his own without protest to give Felix a chance to retire to his room alone, but when he comes back to the table, he’s still there, elbows on the table, nursing a mug of ale. Sylvain knows he should encourage him to get some rest, but it’s hard when he looks at him expectantly and nods toward the empty space across from him at the table where a second mug sits, newly filled. 

“So,” Felix says as Sylvain takes his spot again and tilts his mug resignedly. 

“So?” 

“So, aren’t you going to ask how the dancing is going?” 

Not the ‘training,’ Sylvain thinks, but the dancing specifically. “Oh, I figured it must be going okay. You said yourself that it couldn’t be all that hard.” 

“Hmm.” Felix looks into his own drink for a moment. “Yeah, it’s… it is, though. It’s tough. You look at it and it seems like it’s so slow and easy. But it’s so precise. There’s so much control involved. You let it slip for a second, and it’s all over,” he muses. 

“Wow. I had no idea,” Sylvain answers honestly. “Kind of makes me have some more respect for that dancer in my dad’s battalion. What was her name?” 

“Electra,” Felix answers automatically. 

“Yeah. I always just figured she was pretty much just, y’know. Eye candy.” 

Felix looks up at Sylvain and shoots him a wry smile, but says nothing. 

“What?” Sylvain laughs. “You know my dad. I mean, I got that her job was to psych up the troops, make them more effective, I just thought… I didn’t know it really took that much effort.” 

Felix snorts into his beer. “Yeah, you would think the entire battalion was marching on the strength of their boners, wouldn’t you?” 

“I was a kid! I didn’t know the first thing about… about marching, or battalions, or boners. Or anything.” 

“I refuse to believe there was ever a time you didn’t know anything about boners. You were born trying to get laid.” 

“You wound me. I am the son and heir of the house of Gautier and I do not ‘try to get laid.’ I simply entertain the company of well-born young ladies, as society expects of me.” 

Felix is a little flushed from the ale and just tosses his head back and laughs. He always was a lightweight. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Fraldarius.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that I remember when we were kids and I’m pretty sure you were banned from the kitchen maids’ quarters by the time you were six.” 

“You’re just jealous.” 

Felix chokes into his ale. “Oh, definitely. I’m sure you showed those maids the time of their lives. They may have grown staid and matronly, but they’ll never forget how they felt when that red-headed Gautier swain chased them around the buttery with a wooden sword.”

There’s something unexpected about that answer, but Sylvain’s getting too warm and drowsy to piece it together, so he just kicks at Felix under the table and tosses back the last of his drink. 

\--

It was good that Felix had some fun last night, Sylvain reflects the next morning through a dull headache. Felix has been spread thin lately, and seeing him laugh like he hadn’t a care in the world had had just as much of a replenishing effect on Sylvain as it had hopefully had on Felix himself. The Officers’ Academy is a nice place, sure, full of privileged people, but even then, it’s no picnic. The training is grueling. Infantry fighters and high-ranking generals may be able to focus on physical combat or strategy and tactics respectively, but there’s no such comfort for the students at Garreg Mach. Mornings in the classroom, afternoons at the training grounds, spare moments filled with drills and reading and sparring. And all the while, the knowledge of why they’re really there hanging over them like a cloud; that no matter how peaceful things seem now, one day it’s not just going to be bloodless skirmishes with local lords, but something real and final and bigger than any of them can fathom. Felix has had a closer brush with that finality than anyone else, and Sylvain can see it still haunts him. 

Yeah, it was good to see Felix laugh. Sylvain heads to the dining hall, downs half a pitcher of water, and grabs a loaf of bread to eat on his walk to the training grounds. 

On the way he runs into Hilda and Marianne. They look especially beautiful today, pale pink and blue hair shining in the morning sun. Side-by-side they make an interesting pair, two very different types of woman. Marianne, so quiet and meek she almost disappears into her clothing, but with an aura of kindness and patience that shines out from her wan, delicate features. And Hilda, bursting with energy, overflowing with confidence, quick with a laugh and with a scowl. They’re like the sun and moon, Sylvain thinks. 

“Good morning, ladies,” he says as he skips ahead to get into step with them, flashing a winning smile. “Care to join me in a loaf of bread?” 

“Oh, Sylvain, that loaf is too small for even one of us to fit inside, let alone all three!” Hilda snickers, and even Marianne’s nose crinkles in silent laughter. 

“Ouch, Hilda. Tell me you haven’t been sharing jokes with Alois.” 

“That’s uncalled for!” Hilda snatches the loaf of bread from Sylvain’s hands and pretends to hit him over the head with it. They jostle each other up the path to the training grounds. 

When they arrive, Sylvain isn’t in the least surprised to find Felix there alone. That’s normal for him; up early to train, or, Sylvain sometimes suspects, never having actually gone to bed. He’s practicing a series of vicious thrusts to the neck and chest of a practice dummy, grunting with effort each time he makes contact and then pulling back to thrust again. The sheer power of his attacks is such that Sylvain feels a little intimidated, even though he knows that despite his prickliness, Felix is his ally. 

Hilda and Marianne cross the grounds to find a space of their own for training, while Sylvain stays by the sidelines to finish his bread. Other students are trickling in. Sylvain and Dorothea notice each other at the same time, and she starts to walk his way. Good; he feels primed for a bit of flirtatious banter.

“Good morning, fair lady,” he calls with a pretentious bow. 

“Good morning, my lord. I see you’ve taken the liberty of bringing me my breakfast! Many thanks.” Dorothea sweeps in beside Sylvain, takes the last of the bread loaf from his hand, and begins to nibble delicately. 

“Anything for you, lovely. What brings you to the training grounds this morning? Looking to do a bit of last-minute conditioning before the dance?”

“Why, however did you know I was chosen to represent the Black Eagles? Could it be a little bird told you?” Dorothea smiles sweetly and watches Felix out of the corner of her eye. 

Sylvain isn’t daunted. “Oh, I have ways of finding things out, my sweet lady. I look forward to watching your performance. Surely someone of such grace and talent will bring beauty to the performance the likes of which have never been seen before.” 

“Oh, Sylvain, you’re such a flatterer.” Dorothea rolls her eyes playfully. “I believe you’d say the same thing to my grandmother if she were here.” 

“Certainly l might, if she possesses even a fraction of her granddaughter’s beauty. Why, in fact, I believe I… I….” Sylvain’s train of thought is interrupted, as Felix slams into the practice dummy again with a particularly forceful sound of effort. It draws his attention, and he watches as Felix seems to move in slow motion. He tosses his head, sweeping the hair that’s fallen from his ponytail away from his face, and wipes his brow with his forearm before jerking back hard on his sword to free it from where it’s buried deep in the shoulder of the dummy. 

A giggle from Dorothea brings Sylvain’s attention back, and he sees her eyes move from him to Felix and back again. 

“Go train with your swordsman, Sylvain. If he’s to be a dancer, he’ll need someone to help gentle him. You may be the only one who can.”


	3. Chapter 3

The last week before the ball goes by quickly. Sylvain does train with Felix, and though they stick to sword and lance training, Sylvain still thinks he can detect a new quality to Felix’s technique. His movements are less spare than usual, but still deadly accurate. He distracts Sylvain with a showy riverso only to sweep him off his feet with a low kick, and Sylvain hits the ground over and over again, never quite able to see it coming. 

When the day of the White Heron Cup dawns, Sylvain peeks into the cracked door of Felix’s room as he walks by on his way to the dining hall. Just out of habit, because Felix is usually at the training grounds before Sylvain is even fully awake -- but today, he sees Felix sitting at the edge of his bed, hunched over and hugging his knees. He stops in his tracks, unsure if he should say something or leave Felix to his thoughts, but that decision is made for him when Felix sees him looking and raises his head with a scoff. 

“Come to stare at me in my bedroom first thing in the morning? I hear a hearty breakfast is a healthier way to start the day,” he says miserably.

“No, I was just… surprised to see you. You’re usually outside by now.” 

“Well, I would be, but I’m trying to rest my ankle, since apparently I have to swan around like a half-wit in front of a captive audience in a few hours.” 

Sylvain walks into the room and pushes the door shut behind him, seized by a sudden and unreasonable concern that someone will interrupt them. 

“What do you mean, rest your ankle?” 

Felix looks grimly up at Sylvain, uncurling his legs and pulling one trouser leg up. “I rolled it last night when I was finishing my practice. It’s not broken, but it certainly doesn’t feel good.” He nods toward a basin on the nightstand that’s filled with water. “I iced it earlier, and it helped a little.” 

“Let me see.” Sylvain kneels at Felix’s feet, and surprisingly Felix doesn’t object when Sylvain takes his calf gently in his hand and inspects his ankle. Sure enough, it’s puffy and pink. “Looks like it could be sprained. Can you put weight on it?” 

“Somewhat,” Felix replies, but doesn’t make any motion to stand. He turns his face away when Sylvain looks up at him. Sylvain bends over the ankle, pulling down Felix’s stocking to get a better look. 

“Do you mind if I try something?” Sylvain asks. He doesn’t expect Felix to acquiesce, but he just nods sharply, head still turned away. 

“Fine,” he snaps. It must hurt more than he’s letting on. 

Sylvain is certainly not a healer, but he picked up a little bit of the basics over the years. Kitchen magic, his mother always said derisively, little unglamorous spells that tend to minor ills or made small tasks easier. A Gautier’s magic wasn’t to be wasted on trivialities -- but Sylvain watched the housemaids when they tended to his scraped knees and burnt fingers, and remembered. 

He touches Felix’s ankle gently with the very tips of his fingers, so softly he can barely feel it. As he works the spell, tracing patterns onto the tender skin, there’s a distinct feeling of heat traveling from his body to Felix’s. It makes him feel fond, and also a little bit foolish. There’s no reason Felix can’t go to the infirmary for this, but Sylvain is suddenly grateful that he happened by when he did. Felix may have been too proud to admit to anyone else that he hurt himself training.

A few more passes of his hands around Felix’s ankle, and he can detect the swelling starting to abate. He glances up at Felix, who has turned back to watch Sylvain work, and sees the paleness in his cheeks giving way to a healthy-looking flush.

“Better?” Sylvain asks, leaving Felix’s leg propped in his lap. Felix rubs his nose with the back of his hand and looks away again. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Put some weight on it.” Sylvain pulls Felix’s stocking back into place and places his foot gently on the floor, and Felix stands, tentatively at first. He takes a careful step forward, then another, and turns back to look at Sylvain. 

“I can walk on it. Looks like it worked.” 

“Uh… good.” Sylvain just looks at Felix for a moment, then realizes he’s still kneeling on the floor, and stands up. 

“Thanks,” Felix says. 

“Oh, no worries. Just saved you a trip to Manuela, is all.” 

“Right. Well… I’m glad you were able to do that. I don’t know any healing at all, I never learned.” 

“It’s okay -- it’s pretty hard to do it to yourself, anyway, so even if you did know it it probably wouldn’t have been a ton of help.” 

“Yeah, but it’d still be good to know if I needed to help -- someone. On the battlefield.” 

“I can show you how sometime, if you want.” 

“That’s probably a good idea.” 

The silence in the room is comfortable, and Felix’s bed looks so soft and welcoming Sylvain almost wants to flop down on it and go back to sleep. But Felix is going to his wardrobe now, pulling out his uniform, and Sylvain heads for the door. 

“Well, guess I’ll go on and see what’s for breakfast,” he says. “Good luck swanning around like a half-wit later.” 

Felix rolls his eyes. “Thanks.” 

“I’ll be cheering you on.”

\-- 

The White Heron Cup happens in the ballroom at dusk, and when Sylvain enters with the rest of the students, he hasn’t seen Felix since morning. He hopes his healing spell has held up; he’d thought about seeing if Felix wanted a follow-up before the competition, but decided against it, figuring Felix would come to him if he needed it. 

The judges of the competition are lined up against the back wall: Alois, Manuela, and Shamir. Sylvain is caught by surprise at the last one. Manuela is a given, and Alois is always involved in official school activities whenever possible. But Shamir isn’t someone Sylvain would have singled out as having any interest in dance, whether of the battle magic or garden variety. 

He doesn’t have much time to think about it, though, because he’s quickly hurried to a seat as the competitors enter from a side door. Mercedes and Dorothea enter first, looking poised and confident, and Felix brings up the rear, looking mildly irritated. Sylvain isn’t sure if it’s because his ankle is hurting, because he doesn’t want to be here, or if it’s just his resting face. 

A string quartet in a dim nook to the side strike up a vivacious waltz. The dance itself is brief, all three competitors participating at once. This is a toned-down version of what a dancer would do in the field, Sylvain realizes. Which makes sense. None of them have been fully trained yet, and three novices working full-strength battle magics in an enclosed space full of people would definitely be risky, even if it’s not attack magic. Even so, watching them dance, he feels something stir, a tingling energy, the faint ghost of the power that will make the winner a battlefield asset. 

Dorothea and Mercedes look ethereal. Of course, he’s flirted with Dorothea constantly since arriving at Garreg Mach, and though Mercedes is far less coquettish, he’d be blind if he didn’t notice her soft, feminine body, her expressive eyes and masses of lush, pale hair. The dance they’re doing isn’t particularly sensual, but as they whirl across the floor, he feels swept up in their beauty, charged with a kind of energy that fizzes in his lips and fingertips, making him go numb. Felix…. 

Felix is there too. 

Sylvain isn’t sure if he really wants Felix to win. Simply because he’s not sure if Felix himself wants to win -- he’s not sure how drastically his battle style would have to change, and he’s too good of a swordsman to put in a full support role. But if Felix doesn’t want to win, he’s not doing a very good job of showing it. Every time Sylvain had tried to imagine him performing the dancer’s movements, he could only picture it as unnatural, clunky and awkward at best, a mincing humiliation at worst. But he should have known Felix would make it work. Everything else he does with his body he does with precision and graceful strength, so why would this be any different? He glides as smoothly as Mercedes and Dorothea in their flowing skirts, but rather than rippling fabric, his trousers show the long, taut line of his legs. He does that movement of the arms and hands that Sylvain had seen him practice, his white shirt pulling tight over his back and shoulders, slim hips making a figure-eight. 

Sylvain’s blood is boiling. 

Hilda is looking at him, and he must be red as a beet, because she starts to snicker and nudge Lysithea, who takes one look and rolls her eyes. Of course, they’re going to expect him to do something suggestive, rogue that he is. He manages a halfhearted wink and slumps down into his chair, wishing he could hide until the whole thing is over. 

The end comes both too soon and not soon enough. The music fades out and the three dancers glide to a stop, hanging suspended for a moment in poses that aren’t identical but that complement each other so that their bodies together make a sort of tableau. Applause fills the room, and Sylvain tears his eyes away to look around him. Hilda and Lysithea have turned their attention back to the performance and are clapping enthusiastically, as are most of the rest of the students. Petra gazes at Dorothea with stars in her eyes, and Ingrid and Dimitri are both on the edge of their seats trying to get a better look at Mercedes. Sylvain hears Ignatz behind him lean over and whisper to Raphael: “But wait… if there are three competitors, and three judges, what happens if they each choose a different winner?” 

Sylvain assumes they’d just have to go to a sudden death round, but there’s no more time to speculate, as the judges step forward and Alois gestures to the three dancers and then to the gathered students and teachers. 

“That's all, folks! Splendid! All three of you were fantastic! Now, let's hear what the judges have to say. First of all, for my own humble opinion: I choose the Golden Deer House.” 

Sylvain accidentally lets out a sound between a cough and a laugh as the students applaud, the Golden Deer students a bit more enthusiastically than the rest. Felix’s cheeks look like they’re burning as he makes a taciturn bow to Alois, and the attention of the gathered crowd turns at once to Manuela. 

“Oh my, let's see. I suppose I have no choice but to vote for… the Black Eagle House.” Dorothea looks radiant as she gives a graceful curtsey, and Petra jumps up out of her seat so quickly she almost topples to the ground, applauding fiercely. “Your performance was exhilarating,” Manuela continues. “My heart is still beating a mile a minute.” Dorothea covers her smile playfully and bobs another curtsey. 

The applause for Dorothea dies down, and a buzz of expectation fills the room as all eyes shift toward Shamir. The tall, dark-haired knight doesn’t seem to take notice, her narrowed eyes flicking from Dorothea to Mercedes to Felix and back again. She stands with her arms crossed and head tilted to the side for a long moment, until she finally nods to herself as if satisfied with her decision. 

“I vote for the Golden Deer House.” 

The section of students behind Sylvain erupts with applause and gleeful laughter, while the other two houses applaud politely. Dorothea and Mercedes look at each other and shrug, and they both hug each other and then turn to congratulate Felix. Felix, whose flush has spread from his cheeks all the way down his neck and up to his hairline and is biting his lips ferociously as he keeps his eyes on the floor. He shakes hands with Dorothea and Mercedes without looking up at them, and bows so low to Shamir that he almost folds in half. 

“Thank you, professors,” he says shakily. “I promise to give my all in any role my commanding officer sees fit.”


	4. Chapter 4

Alois going for Golden Deer wasn’t all that surprising, Sylvain reflects as he makes his way back to his quarters. He has a sense of humor and tends to favor a departure from the norm. Manuela, too, going for Dorothea’s dance was a given, considering their shared past in the opera; not that she was playing favorites, necessarily, but Dorothea’s style was just the kind that appealed to Manuela’s tastes. It was Shamir’s vote that was the surprise. Maybe she just chose one at random to make sure there wasn’t a three-way tie… no, she’d clearly put some thought into her decision before speaking. Maybe she just wanted to cause chaos. 

However it had happened, Felix’s bedroom door is closed and locked by the time Sylvain goes up to his room for the night. He’d wanted to get there before Felix to try to catch him before he could barricade himself inside, but of course this was the night the professor chose to invite Sylvain and Hilda to dinner, and he’d had to sit there trying not to meet Hilda’s eyes for fear she’d start a conversation he didn’t have the wits to finish. He eventually begged off with a headache. 

When he’s finally alone in his bedroom with the door closed behind him, he throws himself on the bed and sighs, too exhausted to even light a candle. This whole thing is getting him keyed up in ways he can’t even begin to understand, but whatever it is, it takes the wind out of him physically and mentally. 

His face is still burning as he buries it in the cool linen pillowcase. Felix had really given it his all. Sylvain can’t keep images of him from replaying in his mind. The liquid movements of his body as he danced, interwoven with the fierceness of the training ground, the softness of his hands in his own hair in front of his bedroom mirror, unaware he’s being watched. His body slamming into Sylvain’s again and again as they spar, Sylvain unable or unwilling to move out of the way in time.

Why does he feel like this? Of course the purpose of this kind of magic is to energize the person watching, but not like this. He feels like his skin is on too tight. He feels like -- 

_Fuck. _

Lying facedown on the bed, his body is hot and aches all over, almost like a fever, but the hottest, most aching part of him… _fuck_… he doesn’t want to be like this, but he can’t help it. When his hips press down into the mattress almost without his consent, the feeling makes him draw in a deep, shuddering breath. His hand slips under his body, grinding the heel of his palm into his groin, and a pitiful sound escapes him. He rolls onto his side, giving in and working himself out of his trousers, taking himself in hand. He thinks of Felix on the other side of the wall. Is he truly embarrassed and frustrated as he seemed after the competition? Or could he possibly realize -- could he have seen Sylvain’s face while he danced? Did he feel Sylvain’s eyes on his body? 

Sylvain has to press his other hand into his mouth to stifle himself, he’s always been a loud one and with Felix on the other side of the wall… he’d think Sylvain was with a girl, as he’s certainly been before. He’s certainly heard him. Felix. What if he _listened_, imagined himself in Sylvain’s bed, letting Sylvain worship him with more than just his eyes. What if he came over in the night, slipped under the covers and pressed his body against Sylvain’s and let him touch _everywhere_, do everything? 

\-- 

Sylvain’s determination to start the next day completely free of the temporary insanity that had overtaken him the night before barely lasts past the moment he leaves his room in the morning. To be more accurate, it lasts until he makes his way to the armory, hoping to get a new breastplate fitted, as his current one is growing a little tight. Felix is sitting on the low wall outside, sun glinting on his hair, his face in a rare moment of still and quiet. Sylvain’s heart leaps and he almost turns on his heel. 

But no, he’s not going to let this get weird, he resolves, ignoring the fact that he’s already made it weird even if Felix doesn’t know. He purposely puts a spring in his step, boots making a sound on the walkway that makes Felix’s head pop up. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Sylvain beams, possibly overdoing the casual bit. 

“And yourself,” Felix replies. He still looks bemused, soft and sleepy in the morning light although he’s usually well into a fierce workout by now. 

“So, how happy is the professor about the tournament? Did you get to see a real smile?” 

“I think she’s pleased,” Felix answers. “She’s still not sure exactly how she wants me to proceed, in terms of combat role. But she’s convinced having the dance training will be beneficial, even if it’s not my primary focus. I think she really just wanted to make sure none of the other houses won it -- she’s competitive, even if she doesn’t act like it.” 

“Well, she obviously knows what she’s doing. I can’t imagine anyone else would have thought to put you in that tournament in a thousand years.” Sylvain edges closer until he can sit on the wall beside Felix, a few feet down. “What about you? Are you really okay with this?” 

“I said so at the tournament. I’m okay with any role my commanding officer assigns to me.” 

“Well, of course you said that in front of everyone. You’re a smartass, you’re not an idiot.”

“But?” 

“But it’s… really different, Felix, you know. Remember what we both said when you first got put up for the competition?” 

Felix nods. “That it’s only for women. We thought.” He raises his eyes to Sylvain, suddenly challenging. “Do you think this makes me less of a man?” 

_Shit, oh shit, abort,_ Sylvain thinks. _Don’t make it weird._

“Uh, obviously not,” he chokes out. “As long as you’re cool with it. You’re clearly, uh, qualified.”

Felix smirks. “Don’t sell me short, Gautier.” 

Sylvain is definitely going to die if they don’t change the subject soon.

“So why are you here right now, anyway? You’re usually training.” 

“Oh, well.” Felix clears his throat. “I have to get a new uniform, you know. For when -- if I take a new role.” 

“Right.” Right. Of course. New uniform. There’s nothing at all weird about that, and Sylvain clamps down so hard on thoughts of what dancer’s uniforms usually look like that he thinks he might have pulled something. 

“What about you?” 

“I need a new breastplate, or to have this one stretched, or something. It’s really tight.” 

“Oh? Too many dinners with the professor, huh?” 

“Okay, first of all, nine out of ten times she invites both of us to dinner, and you know this. Secondly, this is all muscle, and don’t think I won’t prove it to you right here.” Sylvain’s mouth is getting away from him, so he flexes his arms and chest to prove his point. Felix’s eyes go comically wide for a second, then his face crumples with laughter, cheeks flushing as he tries to hold it in. 

“I don’t know what’s so funny, noodle boy.” 

“I’m wiry,” Felix sputters. “_Ag -- agile…_”

“Yeah, well. If you need some help with gains, just let me know.” 

Sylvain gives Felix a playful shove, and Felix is about to launch him off the stone wall in return when the armorer’s assistant pokes her head out into the courtyard. 

“Fraldarius… Felix? You can come in now if you want. The armory is open.” 

Felix turns back to Sylvain. “This might take a while, I think. You can go on in first, if you want.”

“Nah, that’s okay. This isn’t urgent -- I can go train and bring this in later. You go on and get fancy.” Sylvain grins. 

“Not -- a -- word, Gautier. Not a _word_.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sylvain doesn’t see Felix for the rest of the day, which is probably for the best. It’s a free day, and after a quick round of morning training he gets sidetracked by Ingrid and Ashe, who want his help in the village picking out a birthday gift for Dimitri. The man’s impossible to buy for, and they spend a few hours going back and forth between a new pair of riding boots and a set of silver cloak pins. They eventually settle on the pins, and by the time they have dinner in the tavern and make their way back to the monastery, twilight has fallen over the grounds. 

There’s not much going on; most of the students and faculty are sheltering in their rooms, the library, or anywhere a warm hearth can be found. Sylvain makes a round indoors, through the entrance hall, the dining hall, and the dorms, not sure what he’s looking to find. But whatever it is, he doesn’t find it, so he decides to retire early. 

He makes a valiant attempt at it, he really does. The day went well, he thought. Training, socializing, behaving normally… yeah, he’d been good until about five minutes ago when he extinguished his lamp and slid under the covers, and now he’s staring at the ceiling, buzzing with energy. Something hovers around the edges of his mind and won’t let him sleep, and Sylvain struggles to block it out, to keep it in the shadows so he doesn’t actually have to look at it.

_What the hell_, he thinks. It’s just too early for him to sleep. He’s always been a night owl to some extent. He relights his lamp and sits uncertainly on the edge of his bed for a minute or two, then starts to pull on his pants and shirt, accompanied by a thick overcoat and long scarf against the winter chill. The hallway is dim and silent, and he sees no one on his way out the door. He doesn’t have any particular destination in mind. 

The winter air is cold, but maybe a touch less than he’d anticipated. He still sees his breath plume out when he exhales, but it’s not enough to make him shiver. He follows the drifting clouds down the walkway, traveling through courtyards and past neatly trimmed hedges. The moonlight falls softly on the treetops and the roofs of the courtyard gazebos. 

At the same moment, Sylvain abruptly notices two disturbances in the silent darkness. Torchlight flickers from behind the training arena, and along with it comes the sound of scuffing shoes and soft grunts of effort. Sylvain moves quietly toward the sound, hoping to avoid being seen or heard.

He peers around the corner, and Felix’s silhouette comes into view, illuminated by the torchlight. His figure is obscured by voluminous fabric that floats behind him, and he’s moving in a way Sylvain’s never seen before. Swordfighting, dancing; it’s neither and both. His blade moves in a glittering arc above his head, and he leaps in a way that sends his robes flying. Sylvain thinks he can recognize the sword he’s holding -- it looks like the wo dao, a long, tapered blade, and it makes his movements look even more graceful. Sylvain keeps watching, spellbound, maybe literally. Some of the things he does don’t quite look like they should be possible, and Sylvain supposes it has to do with the magic effects. He hangs in the air a second too long when he jumps, arches his body too far back to be able to balance, but he does. Clouds float from his lips as he pants with effort. The sword wheels around him, making a sparkling whirlwind with Felix suspended at its center. Sylvain feels like there should be music, but there’s only the sound of Felix’s breath and his sword slicing the air. 

He’s so engaged that he’s forgotten he’s trying not to be seen. Of course, it’s only a matter of time before Felix turns in his direction, and their eyes meet in a frozen moment. Sylvain knows he should look away, but at this point, there’s no use. Felix slows to a stop, and something — a smile, a sneer — lifts one corner of his mouth as he registers what he’s seeing. 

Felix doesn’t approach Sylvain. He just moves to lean back against the outer wall of the arena, tilting his chin up and closing his eyes. He’s slightly out of breath, white clouds still streaming from his lips in the night air, the torchlight shining on his hair and on something lower down.

Sylvain’s eyes follow the glimmer, and he sees that Felix is indeed wearing the dancer’s uniform, decorated with silver charms. There’s a line of them along the low neckline of the robe, and another at the cinched waistline. The material is gauzy, layers of white and royal blue, and even when Felix is still it retains a feeling of floating movement. 

_Wow. _

“Why am I not surprised to see you?” Felix asks without opening his eyes. 

“I couldn’t sleep. I came out for a walk. You -- I saw your light, and I wondered what was going on.” It sounds like a lame excuse, but it’s actually true. Felix chuckles. The torch illuminates his profile from behind, the clouds of his breath casting shifting shadows. “Why are _you_ out here? You must be freezing.” 

“Same reason,” Felix murmurs. “Couldn’t sleep, so I decided to come out and work on my new technique.” Felix still doesn’t look at Sylvain, but he must be able to feel his eyes on him, because he adds, “Figured I should get used to the outfit, too, while I’m at it.”

Sylvain creeps toward Felix, the details of his robe coming into focus as he gets nearer. The neckline is wide, nearly falling off his shoulder on one side, and there’s a cape that’s fastened with a large silver medallion on the other. His skin is flushed with exercise, and in the cold Sylvain thinks he can almost see steam rising from his body. 

“That dancing. It’s different from what you did before. It was so fast and… wild.” They’re standing almost toe to toe now, and Felix’s eyes are still closed. “I could barely tell where the sword started and you stopped. I was worried you were going to cut yourself, to be honest.” 

“Don’t worry about me.”

Sylvain’s dazed for a second when he notices the silver collar that rings Felix’s neck. It’s tight on his throat, obviously not to the point that he can’t breathe, but it moves with him when he swallows. There’s a slit in the skirts of the robe that comes up practically to his hip, and his thigh’s showing through it. 

“Felix?” 

“Hmm?” 

Felix opens his eyes, finally, and looks up at Sylvain. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t look upset at Sylvain’s intrusion, as Sylvain worried he might. 

“You look good,” Sylvain murmurs. His heart is hammering so hard he’s sure Felix can hear it, and part of him wants to turn and bolt. But Felix’s lips part and he huffs out a little laugh.

“Don’t ridicule me,” he says softly. He’s so beautiful in that robe, so desirable it makes Sylvain’s body ache.

“I’m not. I mean it.”

“You’re a fool.” 

“A fool?” Sylvain breathes. 

“A damn fool,” Felix murmurs in reply, and the surge of longing in Sylvain’s chest is too much to bear. He leans down and kisses him. 

Felix gasps when their lips meet, and Sylvain is about to pull away, but then Felix leans in, tilting his head up to better reach him. He kisses back so sweetly, softly, his lips warm and pliant, and then his tongue slips hotly into Sylvain’s mouth and Sylvain’s knees go watery. 

When they part, Sylvain is panting, and he looks down into Felix’s eyes, bright and sharp as always. Felix’s hands are tightly grasping the front of Sylvain’s coat. Slowly, carefully, Sylvain circles Felix’s narrow waist with his arms and holds him close. He can feel the heat radiating from his body now, and it makes him start to sweat even as the snow falls harder around them.

“Felix?” 

“Yes?” 

“You’re okay?” He can see the silver collar trembling with the force of Felix’s pulse. 

“God, you idiot.” His only other response is to kiss Sylvain again, raising his hands to clasp them behind Sylvain’s neck, heavy silver bracelets Sylvain hadn’t noticed before pressing into his skin. He sucks Felix’s tongue into his mouth, and Felix growls and pulls him closer. The world has narrowed to Felix’s mouth and his breath and his feverish skin. He moves his hands to Felix’s shoulders to push him back against the wall, presses against him hard to feel his whole body shudder. 

He keeps him pinned there with the weight of his body -- Felix could break free if he wanted, but he doesn’t -- and Sylvain rips his gloves off with his teeth, slings them to the side and frantically buries his bare hands in Felix’s hair. He pulls roughly on the thin strip of cloth he finds there, and the silky fall of hair tumbles to Felix’s shoulders, midnight black and shining in the light. He doesn’t even know when he last saw Felix’s hair loose, and it’s lush, thick and soft, irresistible to touch. The sight of that hair framing Felix’s flushed face and bitten lips drives Sylvain a little bit wild, and he lunges for Felix’s neck. The thick curtain of hair holds in his heat and scent, salt and clean sweat. He breathes in deep, lightheaded with arousal, and leans hard into Felix. He can’t keep himself from crushing him against the wall.

“Felix,” Sylvain groans into his neck. 

“Ah… Sylvain… _goddess_. That’s it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain whispers between panting breaths. “I couldn’t fucking help myself, Felix, I want you, I can’t stop thinking about you --”

“Don’t say you’re sorry, you… you _fool_. Say you’re sorry you waited this long.” 

“I’m… Felix, you --” Sylvain is groping for words but can’t hold onto the thread of his thoughts with Felix against him, breathing hard and looking like he’s about to burst out of the thin material of his top. He gives Sylvain a look that thuds into his chest like the point of a lance. 

“Back to my room. Now.” 

Felix slips out of Sylvain’s grasp like a wraith and pulls at his hand, practically dragging him along behind as he stalks to the dormitories, the pendants on his robe clinking softly with each step. There’s no one around to see them, but Sylvain wouldn’t care if there was; the dormitories aren’t far, but he can imagine being pulled across the courtyard in the full light of day, hauled behind Felix like a conquest. When they reach the room, Felix fishes the key from the waistband of his robe and shoves Sylvain in ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm imagining Felix's version of dancing to be kind of like a [Chinese sword dance ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yjk9VdTk4kc)(thus the little shout-out to the wo dao). Mixed with a little wuxia-esque jumping and flipping to reflect the magic aspect. Better than the little spin move in the game, anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

When he had allowed himself to imagine it, to imagine fucking Felix, he’d imagined taking his time. Coaxing him, showing him the worship he deserves, drowning him in attention. Not letting him move a muscle, just making him lie there under Sylvain’s body, bare, defenseless, until he’s screaming or sobbing, ready to die from pleasure. 

When the door of Felix’s room closes behind them, though, it’s Sylvain who’s on his back in seconds. Felix pushes him toward the bed while he stumbles to the bedside table long enough to hastily strike a light, then throws himself on top.

“Fuck, _Felix_,” he gasps. 

“You bastard,” he growls. “You imbecile. I thought -- I waited, while you fucked every girl on two legs. I thought you didn’t care a thing for me, I waited for you. I wanted you, I wanted you, Sylvain, I --” Felix’s voice cracks as Sylvain wriggles himself upright so that they’re face-to-face.

“I didn’t know, Felix. I didn’t know… I didn’t know I wanted you, I never thought you’d want me in a thousand years. Felix, you’re so -- fuck, you’re so beautiful.” Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say, maybe Felix will find it belittling, emasculating, he should have said handsome or sexy or just hot. But it was the only word that would come to him in the moment, and the way Felix’s flush deepens? It was the right word.

Felix leans back against the pillows, bare legs stuck out in front of himself. 

“I had to put on a dress for you to notice?” he asks, but a tremble in his voice tells Sylvain he’s teasing, trying to stir him up, and Sylvain complies. 

“I don’t think it was the dress, exactly.” 

“It’s not a dress.” 

“You said dress.” 

“I was being facetious.” 

“The… robe? The uniform?” Sylvain continues, placing his hands on Felix’s shoulders and admiring him, “Makes you look… god, irresistible, but Felix, I was thinking about this already.” 

Felix kisses him again, and Sylvain’s mind goes blank. Felix’s hand is at his jaw, holding it open to slip his tongue in deeper, harder. He shifts as he does, trying to maneuver himself on top of Sylvain again, and a brief struggle ensues. As much as Sylvain might like to let Felix win, he’s too proud, even now, to go without a fight, so when Felix lunges forward and knocks Sylvain back on his haunches, Sylvain grasps him hard by the hair. Felix goes limp for a moment, long enough for Sylvain to sit up and push him back down against the pillows, pinning his body with his own. Sylvain’s tight hold on his hair pulls his neck back and makes his sharp eyes look even narrower, his jaw and cheekbones more pronounced. Felix is tense, but still. 

Sylvain is still wearing his overcoat and scarf, so he wriggles until he can get his arms out of the sleeves and toss them aside. Now all he has on above his waist is the thin linen shirt he’d worn to bed. He can feel Felix now. Regretfully, he unclasps the silver collar — it’s beautiful and erotic but now it’s in his way. Sylvain lowers his lips to where the low neckline of the robe reveals Felix’s throat and collarbone, like he’s been wanting to do since he first saw him tonight. It’s a lush experience. Felix’s skin is so soft, so delicate and hot at the spot where his blood rushes fiercely just beneath, and Sylvain sinks his teeth in and bites, feeling feral in a way he never has before. Felix spits a blistering oath and digs his fingertips into Sylvain’s back. 

Sylvain pulls back to softly kiss the spot where he’d bitten, feeling slightly ashamed of himself. “How was I supposed to resist you, Felix?” he whispers against his skin. “How could I? I thought….” Sylvain hesitates, knowing he probably shouldn’t be quite so honest, but he can’t help it, and keeps babbling on as he works his fingers into the material of Felix’s sash, searching for a knot or fastening he can undo. “I thought about you at night. When I was in bed alone, I thought about you coming in and….” 

Felix’s voice is tight with restraint. “And what?” 

“Letting me....” He wants to say it, but he can’t unless Felix makes him.

Felix’s tone verges on a whine when he persists, “letting you what, Sylvain? Say it. Say it or I’ll --”

It comes out in a rush. “Letting me touch you. Your hair, your lips… your neck… your waist. Your ass. Naked.” Sylvain manages to loosen the robe a little, unclasps the medallion at his shoulder and pulls the neckline open. “Your back, your thighs, your chest.” His nipples are peaked, just begging for attention. Sylvain takes one softly between his lips and sucks until Felix’s hips start thrashing under him. Oh, he likes that. “Your cock.” He pulls Felix up by his hips on the last word, so that they fit together, and _oh_, he’s hard already, and not even half out of his clothes. 

Felix draws one of his legs back, and Sylvain notices for the first time that he’s wearing sandals, with leather straps that encircle his legs up to the knee. He takes one and pulls at it until the straps come loose and pool at Felix’s pretty ankle. Even as distracted as he is he notices that there’s no sign of a sprain, and he wonders how much of that is due to his healing spell. Sylvain pulls his other leg into his lap and does the same, pulling the straps down and off over Felix’s narrow feet. He runs his hands up and down his legs, trying to rub away the marks.

The act of slipping his hands up a skirt is so familiar, but what his hands find there is definitively not, in case he’d forgotten. Sylvain’s fingers press into the crease of his thighs and over his cock; it’s an erotic shock. His world shifts on its axis. Here he is with his hands on another man for the first time in his life, and he’s having a crisis; it’s not really that he’s a man, so much, but he’s Felix. And Felix wants it. He opens for him. He’s on his back for him, spreading his legs for him.

He doesn’t get long to bask in the feeling, though. Felix seems to sense an opening and pulls himself up enough to free his hands and grasp at Sylvain’s sleep shirt, almost tearing it in his desperation to get it off. It goes over his head, and before Sylvain even gets free of it Felix is digging his fingertips into his chest, through the reddish blonde curls of hair. He leans in to kiss and bite at him. Sylvain wraps his arms around him tightly, bending his head to breathe in the scent of his hair again. 

Sylvain finds his words eventually. “I told you, muscle,” he chides as Felix gets more eager, squeezing and mouthing the swell of his pecs like he’s trying to bury his face in them. He grunts in annoyance at Sylvain’s words without lifting his head, voice muffled against his body.

“Please shut up.”

“Oh, ‘say it, Sylvain, say it or I’ll cry,’ and a second later it’s ‘shut up.’ Make up your mind.” 

Felix lunges against him, pushing him onto his back again and grinding his hips down. Sylvain feels his body answer and knows Felix feels him too. He experiences an adrenaline-laced moment when he realizes how easy it would be for Felix to do anything to him. He could choke him to death with his bare hands right here if he wanted and Sylvain would probably let him. 

But he just starts to rock his hips, and the curve of his lower back and the feeling of him moving like that has Sylvain gasping again while whatever blood was left in the rest of his body shoots straight to his dick. He knows this feeling, but he doesn’t. He knows the roll of Felix’s body and the shift and pull of his weight, the toss of his head and his heavy breathing. But this want, this craving and need for him that feels too huge for Sylvain’s body, is new. 

“You really want me?” Felix hums, continuing to rock against him. 

“God, yeah. Fuck. Yeah.” Sylvain giggles a little, hardly believing what he’s hearing.

“You want… what exactly?”

“Uhh… I thought….”

“You wanna fuck me? Is that it?”

“Oh my god, Felix, what the fuck. You can’t just say that.”

“Why not? You want to fuck me? Want me to ride you like this?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” 

Felix tosses his head and laughs. He inches back, kneeling on the bed and leaning forward so he can pull at Sylvain’s trousers. Sylvain sucks in air, the proximity of Felix’s face to his dick suddenly extremely important, and watches Felix draw the waistband back until Sylvain springs out. Nothing on under the pants because, well, he’d gone to bed, and he hopes Felix isn’t taken off guard.

But Felix is unbothered. When Sylvain looks down and sees his own hard-on and feels Felix watching him, arousal twists in his gut like a knife and his cock twitches under the attention. He feels a vague shame at being so exposed. He groans when Felix places his hands on the inside of his thighs and pushes them apart slightly. Sylvain supposes it’s only fair after all the ogling he’s been doing, which got him in this situation in the first place. 

God… Felix isn’t small. He’s well-built, muscular, but lithe, and narrower of frame, and his fingers are slender and lovely. Sylvian’s thighs are thick from years on horseback, and Felix’s hands on them make him feel huge. They slide up the inside of his legs, over his hipbones to run over his chest and stomach, and Sylvain huffs. He expects Felix to scold him and keep teasing, but suddenly gentle fingers touch him where he needs it, and his chest tightens.

Felix is biting his lip furiously, brows knitted, stroking him gently, the fingers of his other hand still spread on Sylvain’s thigh. The careful, mesmerized attention he’s giving him right now, like he wants to commit to memory every detail of his body, makes Sylvain feel like he could die in agony. He looks so beautiful, the light of the lamp glinting on his bottom lip. Sylvain’s stomach drops dizzily like he’s about to take a fall from horseback. 

“Come here, you little… ugh… smug bastard,” Sylvain mutters, and he pulls Felix onto his lap. The robe is still on, and Sylvain is stark naked, and that’s not going to work. He takes the chance to pull Felix’s belt free, so the fabric of the robe falls all the way open with a jingle of chains and pendants. Felix is bare past the waist now and just about bursting out of what little he’s still wearing. Sylvain wraps his fingers around him, and through the thin fabric he can feel that he’s just as hard. As soon as Sylvain gives the slightest squeeze, Felix’s thighs clench around his hips and he lets out a shaky sigh. Sylvain feels more confident then -- after all, it’s not like this is completely new to him. He strokes the way that he likes, and Felix responds both bodily and verbally. 

“C’mon, Sylvain. If you’re going to fuck me, get on with it.” 

“Ugh, so impatient!” Sylvain chides. “You call me insatiable. Never again after this are you allowed to say a single thing to me, ever.” 

“God, you’re so annoying.”

“My dick was literally just in your face.” 

“And if it’s not somewhere else in about five seconds I -- ah!”

Sylvain overcomes what may be some legitimate first-time jitters he hasn’t felt since… well, since an entirely inappropriate age. He maneuvers Felix’s underclothes out of the way and takes him gently in his hand. And now finally he has Felix bare in front of him. Granted, not in Sylvain’s own bed but in Felix’s, but still -- Felix, here, with him. 

Has he ever seen another man hard before? If so, Sylvain can’t recall it, and that’s the kind of thing he’d probably remember. Felix’s cock looks good, irresistible in a way he never thought it could be. If Sylvain had been unsure as to how he’d feel when this moment came, his fears are immediately put to rest because just looking at it makes him audibly groan with want. 

Felix puts his hand over Sylvain’s where he’s still stroking him and squeezes, moves it up and down to show him what he likes. Sylvain watches for a moment, both their hands sliding up and down together, the interlacing of their fingers. Watches Felix grow more desperate, feels his heart skip. Without letting go, Sylvain leans down and kisses him, deep and hungry. He slips his tongue between his lips to taste him and swallow his sighs, and surprises himself with a deep moan that vibrates through his body and into Felix’s mouth.

He tries to continue the kiss but suddenly Felix stops him, pulling his hand away from his body and meeting his eyes, and Sylvain can feel the dumb, confused look on his face as Felix rolls his eyes with affection. 

“Don’t wanna finish yet, dumbass,” he mutters. “I want you to….” He pouts, as if he’s suddenly shy to say exactly what he had been taunting Sylvain with earlier. “Do you want to? Have… have you?” 

Felix knows perfectly well that Sylvain is no virgin, to put it mildly, but he supposes he knows what he’s asking. 

“Not… no.” Felix actually looks somewhat happy with this answer, which touches Sylvain’s heart. “But I know… you know, what to do.” He wants to ask if Felix has, wants with a burning ferocity to know who has seen him like this, can’t keep himself from imagining Felix’s fingers entwined in golden hair. But he bites it back. 

“Okay, just… hold on.” He leans from the bed for a moment to rustle in the bedside drawer and returns with a container of clear liquid. Sylvain’s eyebrows go up, and Felix narrows his eyes. “I put it on my hands sometimes. For sword calluses.” 

“Whatever you say,” Sylvain says automatically, and Felix cracks him rather painfully on the head with the sealed bottle. Sylvain takes it from his hands and leans Felix back against the headboard of the bed. 

“Can I… do you want...?” Sylvain stammers, and Felix chuckles, but fondly. Sylvain gives it another try. “Can I fuck you?” 

Felix lets out a breath. “Yeah… god, yeah. Please.”

He takes the bottle back from Sylvain and uncaps it, a faintly herbal smell wafting out. He pours some into his hands, using it to coat Sylvain’s cock. Felix’s hands moving over him with that slickness feel divine, but it’s over almost before it begins and Felix is pouring more into his own hand, reaching down to himself. 

“Wait,” Sylvain blurts. Felix looks up at him with a flick of eyelashes. 

“... You want to?” 

“That okay?”

“Hah… yeah. Yeah, go on, then.” 

Sylvain takes the oil from Felix’s hand and reaches down carefully, heart absolutely pounding out of his chest, and touches him between his legs. He’s burning hot, his skin is so soft. And he’s impossibly tight, panting, cock twitching between them as Sylvain eases deeper. It’s painfully intimate now that it’s actually happening. 

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Felix says, voice slightly strained. He bites his lip, looking like he’s in a special kind of agony.

“C’mon, I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

“It’s not -- you’re not, it doesn’t hurt, I j--” Felix’s words trail off, and he slaps his hand over his mouth. He’s looking down his own body with eyes as wide as saucers at what Sylvain is doing. 

“You feel good. You feel so good,” Sylvain whispers, slipping deeper still, stroking him and feeling his body start to soften. He takes his time with it, kissing Felix’s neck and shoulders and bringing his free hand up to cup his face. “Relax. It’s me.” For a while he hears nothing but Felix’s breathing and the blood pounding in his own body. Sylvain’s not one hundred percent positive that he’s doing it right, but he wants Felix to feel good, and he goes slowly the way he would with a girl he particularly wanted to spoil and pleasure. It’s not long until Felix starts to rock his hips into the sensation.

“Sylvain, come on.”

“You sure?” 

“_Sylvain_,” Felix snarls. Sylvain has heard that tone of voice before.

“Okay, okay, how do you want to -- ?”

“Like this. Come here.” Felix pulls Sylvain down and half-sits against his headboard. Sylvain is kneeling in front of him now, and Felix wraps his legs around him, face to face. (Sylvain realizes he’d been assuming Felix would turn around for this, that that was just how men fucked. But they can still kiss, still see each other.) Sylvain pushes his thighs apart enough to get between them. His cock drags back and forth across Felix’s rim, and with each pass Felix arches his back, grabbing at his mouth again to hold in his voice. Sylvain pulls Felix’s hands away from his face before slipping into that spot like it’s made for him. 

He watches Felix as he does it. He’s got his eyes screwed shut, panting, sheened with sweat, caught up in the sensation he’s feeling, whether it’s bliss or torment. Sylvain leans his hips into him, moving as smoothly as he can until he’s all the way inside him, where he slows for a moment, letting the feeling roll over him. Felix is perfect, his body is perfect, he feels like nothing else, hot and sweet and smooth. He’s taking him in so well. Felix’s hips buck under him and Sylvain gasps, placing his hand on the inside of Felix’s thigh, pushing it to the side so he can get that slight extra leverage. When he hits it just right, Felix gasps as his body clenches tight around him.

Felix is snarling, his teeth bared in the lamplight, and he’s grinding his hips up to take Sylvain in deeper. He’s gagging for a hard fuck now. Sylvain bites down and thrusts again for that spot like his life depends on it -- like if he doesn’t get another chance at this he’s going to fuck Felix so good that he’ll never forget it. Sweat’s dripping into his eyes, and he tosses his head to shake his hair out of his face. Every time he drags back slowly until he’s almost out and then fucks into Felix as hard as he can, and Felix is hissing and sighing, trying to give it back as much as possible, his pretty cock hard between them. 

“Like that? Like that, Felix?” 

Felix is strung so tight, legs shaking as he lifts his hips, visibly straining to stay silent. He’s being strangely quiet now, making only soft sighs and gasps, and Sylvain’s suddenly burning to hear his voice. 

“Let me hear you… let your voice out… Felix, let me hear you.” His voice cracks on Felix’s name, and oddly enough that’s what seems to tip him over, as Felix follows with a moan that sounds wrenched from his guts. 

“Sylvain. Please… please.” 

“What? What do you need? Felix, tell me, Felix,” Sylvain says wildly, struggling not to lose his pace, but Felix is beyond words now, he only tosses his head back and moans again. Sylvain feels his climax building, but he is absolutely making Felix come first. He takes Felix’s cock in his hand and Felix nearly sobs. He doesn’t touch himself this time, he clenches his fists in the sheets and lets Sylvain work him, trying his best to keep his hips angled, move at the same steady pace, stroke Felix and try not to come, all simultaneously. He manages to do all this and lean down to press their foreheads together to boot. 

“Come on, Felix… that’s it. Relax. You can come for me. Felix, please come for me.” Felix’s eyes open, meeting Sylvain’s, then they both look down at Felix’s cock in Sylvain’s hand. 

He’s not sure exactly how he can tell it’s about to happen, but he can. Felix’s body reaches the highest possible peak of tension, then the tension snaps and Felix is wracked with it. His cock throbs heavily in Sylvain’s hand, come arcing across his stomach and chest, and his entire body shakes and twitches with the waves of his orgasm. It makes him even tighter around Sylvain -- he almost can’t believe that they could be that tight, that closely joined. Even now, Felix’s face is devastating. His screwed-shut eyes actually snap open at the moment of climax, irises drowned in black, and he grasps at Sylvain, gasping and looking for a second like he’s almost frightened of what’s got him in its grip. He falls back against the headboard.

“Shh… that’s it, there you go. God, Felix. Go on, go on, let it go.” 

Felix’s moans slowly turn to whimpers, then a soft, pleasured hum. With the tension gone his body sags against the headboard, his legs falling open. Sylvain wonders if he should pull out and see to himself, let Felix soak in this obviously hard-won peace. It’s tantalizing to think of coming on his stomach and chest, so he’s covered with both their spend -- but before he can move Felix straightens a bit, looks up at him with his thick lashes and flushed face and riot of hair, and Sylvain moves in him without thinking. 

“Fuck, Felix. I’m going to --”

“Do it! Come in me!” 

As if he could last through that. He leans down and buries his face in Felix’s neck as he shakes through an orgasm that feels like it could very well kill him. Felix’s body is soft and willing now he’s had the fight fucked out of him, and Sylvain grinds out a few final, slow, forceful thrusts in time with the pleasure pulsing in his core. He feels Felix wind his arms around him and hold him close, close enough to feel that his heart is calming, slowing to a soothing, steady rhythm that helps Sylvain breathe in, out, in, beat by beat coming back to himself. 

Some moments pass and Sylvain becomes aware of a few things: their bodies pressed together, Felix’s spend between them, the sudden chill of the room on his bare back. And Felix’s arms around him, cradling his head as he rests it against Felix’s chest. He knows he has to get up, but with Felix holding him like this, he could stay forever. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Felix so gentle and relaxed, and he wants to savor this more than anything. His body is still buzzing with afterglow, and he lies there, moving slowly with the rise and fall of Felix’s chest, listening to him breathe. Felix strokes his hair with one hand and reaches down to cup his cheek with the other. 

“You okay?” he asks finally. 

Sylvain sniffs. “Yeah, I’m better than okay. Are you?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Felix bends his neck to kiss Sylvain on top of his head, making his heart clench painfully. 

“Okay, let me up. I’ll clean us off.” Felix’s arms unwind slowly and Sylvain goes to the small pitcher and bowl in the corner of the room. He looks around for a moment and finds his discarded sleeping shirt on the floor, dampens it with the pitcher and returns to the bed. Felix lets him wipe off his chest and stomach, but takes it from his hands when he goes to clean between his legs, which he guesses is fair. Sylvain takes the shirt back from Felix when he’s finished and uses the clean side on himself, then tosses it in the corner and returns to Felix.

“Disgusting,” Felix says without venom. 

“I’ll throw it away tomorrow,” Sylvain says automatically, then freezes in internal panic; tomorrow assumes he’s spending the rest of the night with Felix. But Felix doesn’t seem to think twice about it, just lifts the blanket and slips under it. The bed is narrow, but so is Felix, and he moves to the far side to allow Sylvain room. They lie side-by-side on their backs for a while, looking at the ceiling and not saying anything -- but Felix’s hand creeps across the blanket and hooks his little finger around Sylvain’s.


End file.
